The hillsides were newly green, littered with wildflowers and soft grass. It was pleasant to take the winding trail to the high meadows where the shepherds lived for the warm months. As the way diverged from the stream, it broadened out, allowing the riders to go abreast. Twice, as they reached forks in the path, Chih-Yü pointed out the correct way as they rode in companionable silence. Once, as they rounded a bend, they saw a deer standing in the way. The horses faltered and the deer, after one liquid glance, sprang noisily away through the brush.
Chih-Yü pointed toward the disappearing buck.” A good sign!” she called out to Saint-Germain, who waved to let her know he heard.
Three li farther on, they came to a clearing in which squatted a collection of twigs and wattle, like an enormous inverted bird’s nest. A rickety enclosure occupied perhaps one-quarter of the meadow, and within its confines the close-cropped grass gave silent testimony that this was a sheepfold and the odd, flimsy building must be the shepherd’s hut.
“He will be on the hillside at this time of day,” Chih-Yü said as she drew in her bay. “He won’t return until sunset. I suppose we must search for him.”
Privately, Saint-Germain thought that was a fool’s errand, but he said, “Where would he be, do you think? There’s a great deal of hillside.”
“We must try the falls first. There is a still pool beside it where the sheep will drink. Fan often takes them there.” She pulled her horse up close to the hut and bent to look through the cloth-covered opening that served as a door. “He has gone for the day.”
Saint-Germain shook his head, reflecting that it was less than flattering to realize that his kind shared an aversion to running water with sheep. “Then we must try the drinking pool, I suppose,” he said aloud.
“Yes.” Apparently she was familiar with the way, for she headed her horse into the straggling pines, motioning Saint-Germain to follow her.
By midafternoon they had found three of the shepherds and had given them instructions. Fan and his cousin Djo took the orders well, but the old shepherd, No-ei, heard T’en Chih-Yü out grudgingly, remarking when his Warlord had finished, “It is not fitting that you should be saying such things to me. You are a woman and young; I am a man of advanced years and great experience. It is I who should lead and you who should follow.”
Leaning forward in his saddle, Saint-Germain addressed the old man gently. “Shepherd No-ei, Warlord T’en is responsible for your safety, and the safety of this district, as was her father before her. Are you refusing to cooperate in her defense plans?” He was aware that he spoke the local dialect badly, but it was plain that No-ei understood him nevertheless. He scowled angrily.
“A woman and a foreigner!” the shepherd jeered. “Better Mongols than this state of affairs.” He trod across T’en Chih-Yü’s shadow and glared defiantly at her.
Chih-Yü reacted quickly to this insult. She reached for her scabbard, and swung it so that it caught the shepherd a sharp blow on the shoulders. “Speak such things where anyone else can hear you and I promise you, you will be flogged.” She pulled her horse around. “I release the ignominious person No-ei from his obligations to the Mao-T’ou stronghold, and give him official warning now that the forces of the Mao-T’ou stronghold will not be used for his protection. Should the despicable No-ei seek refuge there, it will be denied him. Should he ask for militiamen to guard his flocks or his life, they will not be given. Should he require escort, such will not be extended to him from the Mao-T’ou stronghold. Should he be starving, injured, cold, thirsty or ill, he will not be allowed to avail himself of the assistance offered in such emergencies by the Mao-T’ou stronghold.” When she had finished this formal sentencing, she turned her horse away abruptly, clapped her heels to the bay’s flanks and rushed off down the hillside.
“I’ve rarely heard so succinct a civil excommunication,” Saint-Germain said dryly in Latin to the old shepherd. He felt a touch of pity that he knew, even as he saw the horror in No-ei’s squinted eyes, he could not afford. He wheeled his gray and hurried after Chih-Yü.
Fury still clouded her face when he caught up with her, and she refused to look at him. “That unconscionable old fool!” she muttered to the space between her horse’s ears. “He thinks women are good for nothing but bearing children, keeping accounts and serving their husbands and sons. He should have heard my father on the subject of husbands and sons.”
Saint-Germain said nothing, but he slowly pulled his gray to a trot, and Chih-Yü did the same.
“Only a reckless person lets a horse plunge down a slope the way I did,” she said, chagrined, as she turned to Saint-Germain. “I should not have let that old man distress me so. He said nothing I have not heard before.”
“Perhaps,” Saint-Germain suggested as he watched the rutted trail winding ahead of them, “it was because you wish to defend your region, and he would not do his part, that you lashed out at him. Oh, yes,” he went on quickly, “you certainly did that. He has paid dearly for his recalcitrance.”
“Better that now than betrayal later.” The words were harsh but her tone was colored by doubt.
“Yes,” Saint-Germain agreed at once. “It isn’t pleasant to condemn pigheaded old men, but you cannot expose all the others in your district to the hazard he has become. His rancor has festered too long and you can no longer change it.” This was, he sensed, the only comfort she would accept from him, and he told himself that it was honest, since nothing he said distorted the truth. Yet he felt a surprising compassion for the Warlord T’en. He could hear in his thoughts the way Rogerio would upbraid him if he knew of Saint-Germain’s interest in this woman, and he chuckled.
“You are amused?” Chih-Yü demanded, her ire still warm enough to give her words heat.
“By myself, T’en Chih-Yü,” he said, continuing in another voice, “You wanted to speak to the forester and his family, didn’t you?”
Chih-Yü glanced up at the sky. “It is getting late. I doubt we could find them before sunset. Tomorrow I will send Jui Ah to the forester.”
Saint-Germain realized that was not her only reason, that she feared another encounter like the one with No-ei. Instructions from Jui Ah would be more acceptable. He looked at the branches and shadows overhead: the sun was well over his left shoulder, dropping into the western mountains. “We’ve come quite a distance into the hills,” he allowed, “and it is most unwise to be abroad at dusk.”
“It is,” she said gratefully, and gave her attention to picking a way down the slope.
They were in a rocky, shallow gully where a freshet tore at the muddy banks, when there was an unexpected sound—sharp, like a tree limb cracking, but more metallic.
Chih-Yü looked around quickly. “Where was that?”
Saint-Germain shook his head, listening. Was that a footfall? he asked himself. “Mongol scouts?” he inquired casually in the dialect of Lo-Yang.
She answered in the same. “More likely highwaymen. Scouts usually keep to the crests and ridges in order to observe as much as possible.”
There was another, soft sound nearby, and Saint-Germain put his hand to his sword hilt. “I think it would be wise to take a few precautions.”
“We could spur out of here,” Chih-Yü suggested.
“But what’s ahead? They may want us to do that, so they may drop nets over us, or trip our mounts with ropes, or ambush us from that turn in the trail.” Even as he said this, he saw that the same cautions had occurred to her.
“How many do you think there are?” she went on conversationally, still speaking the dialect of the old capital.
“Four at the least,” he answered, listening to the subtle signals that were hardly sounds at all. “Two on the right, two on the left. There are probably more up ahead.” The tone of his voice suggested that he was discussing the weather.
“Undoubtedly,” she answered, loosening her sword in its scabbard. “How soon?”
“They may be waiting for us to move.” He bent in the saddle an
d felt for the dagger tucked into his boot.
“Then we will oblige them. I would prefer better ground than this gully if we’re going to fight.” The indecision had left her. It was with an effort that she kept her words sounding casual. “We will get out of this gully, and try for that glade over there. It is good footing, and it is off the trail, so that any other men will have to come through the brambles. Will your horse mind the thorns?”
Saint-Germain looked at the berry-vine thicket and raised his brows. Chih-Yü had hit upon the best delaying tactic available. Certainly men on foot would have trouble getting through that prickering, scratching wall to the glade beyond. “He won’t like them, but he’ll go where I tell him-to.”
“Excellent.” There was a flush of excitement in her face and she sat straighter in the saddle. “I think the four are nearer.”
“Keeping to the shadows, but nearer,” Saint-Germain concurred, his penetrating eyes seeking out the forms of three of the men in the underbrush. “One of them is trying to get behind us.”
“Ah?” She pulled up her reins. “Are you ready?”
“Whenever you say, Warlord.” Some of her exhilaration was communicating itself to him. He gathered the reins and set his boots more firmly in the stirrups.
She gave one nod. “Now!” she cried, setting her bay sprinting up the bank of the gully. Mud and stones flew from the horse’s feet as he gathered himself for the last surge upward. Then he bounded forward, crashing through the underbrush toward the thicket of berry vines as Chih-Yü drew her sword and gave an incoherent yell of challenge.
Saint-Germain was not far behind her. His gray, a deep-chested, long-legged mixture of Turkish and Russian breeds, had been carefully taught and responded quickly to the pressure of his master’s knees. Branches whipped around them, and as they raced after Chih-Yü the thorns gouged them, but the pace did not slacken.
Behind them, the four men burst from their cover with baffled, enraged cries, and one of them ran up the track, shouting orders in a guttural tone. Now that the men were in the open, it was seen that they were highwaymen, probably former soldiers or militiamen who had deserted their companies and had taken to banditry. Two of the men had long, well-cared-for swords and a third had a pike with the handle broken off short for close combat.
“Turn!” Chih-Yü shouted as she burst through the berry vines into the glade. She had already tugged her bay around, and he was crouching low on his hind legs, his forelegs pawing the air with the strain of this sudden reversal.
The gray whinnied in dismay as Saint-Germain dragged on the rein. The horse reared, almost overbalanced, then came to stand as he had been trained to do. There was a darkening of his withers, but he had great stamina and did not pant too deeply.
“They’re coming,” Chih-Yü said as she brought her sword up. “When they break through the vines, charge them.”
Saint-Germain nodded and drew his short sword from the scabbard on his saddle, cursing mentally the law that prohibited foreigners carrying long weapons. He touched his dagger again, to be sure he could reach it quickly.
There were cries and thrashings and the thicket of berry vines whipped in its private gale. There were loud protestations, and in a moment, legs were visible.
“Ready.” Chih-Yü did not look at Saint-Germain as she gave the order: her attention was completely on the men in the berry vines.
Though it was hazardous, Saint-Germain glanced away to assure himself that the other highwaymen were not coming up on their flank, and was disquieted to see a number of crouched figures running forward.
The men broke throgh the berry vines and rushed forward with a shout. Chih-Yü answered this with one of her own as she dug in her heels and set her horse for the men.
Beside her, Saint-Germain did the same, raising up his sword to strike at the man carrying the long-handled pike. The curved blade sliced the air and Saint-Germain brought his sword down behind it, and had the momentary satisfaction of feeling the wooden handle crack under his blade.
Chih-Yü rode down the nearer of the highwaymen, ignoring his scream as her horse’s hooves crushed his hips. She swung her sword low, taking a long swipe at the second man.
He ducked, but did not entirely avoid the cut. A red smear appeared on his shoulder and he howled with the pain of it. He could not bring his’ weapon up again, and knew in that instant before Chih-Yü’s sword bit into his neck that he was lost.
Saint-Germain caught this exchange out of the corner of his eye and felt an odd touch of pride. Warlord T’en deserved her title, he thought as he brought his gray onto his hind legs so that he could hack down the fourth man, who had just freed himself from the thorns. He was pulling his sword out of the highwayman’s shoulder when he heard another shout—a loud, harsh sound—and saw that there were more men running in from the trees.
“There!” Chih-Yü cried out, pointing with her blade. “I make it seven men.”
“Seven,” he agreed, wheeling the gray. He assessed the weapons quickly, and was more concerned for the two long-handled spiked clubs, not unlike Crusader’s mauls, than for the swords. A well-aimed blow from those clubs would smash bones as easily as a mallet crushed eggs. With this grim thought to spur him on, he rode toward the nearest man armed with a club.
Chih-Yü brought her arm down as she rushed two of the men, and her sword descended with inexorable deadliness. One man fell, blood fountaining from an enormous wound; the second tripped and was given a painful but relatively harmless nick on the ribs.
“Kill them! Kill them!” one of the oldest highwaymen shrieked. “Bring them down!”
One of the highwaymen, much younger than the rest, made a rush at Saint-Germain, his long cavalry sword raised over his head. Saint-Germain swung his horse away from the blow, and kicked out sharply as the youth started to turn. His booted foot caught the highwayman on the chin and snapped his head back with a crunch. The young man fell, legs splaying, and was still.
One of the highwaymen had caught hold of Chih-Yü’s mount’s reins and was trying to drag the horse down. Chih-Yü hacked at him, once on the face and once at the thigh, and the man collapsed, but not before his companion with a club had broken her horse’s hind leg. The bay screamed and tottered.
Saint-Germain had cut down another highwayman when he heard the agonized sound of Chih-Yü’s horse. He turned to see the man with the club strike again at the bay’s other hind leg just as the oldest of the outlaws reached to pull Chih-Yü from the saddle. He reached into his boot scabbard and in one quick, fluid motion sent the dagger sailing to lodge high in the old man’s back.
The highwayman did not even scream. His arms lifted higher; then he toppled backward just as Chih-Yü’s horse fell.
Though pinned to the ground by her bay, Chih-Yü still fought. Her sword laid open the nearest man’s belly while she struggled to get free of the weight of her feebly thrashing mount.
One of the highwaymen broke and fled, and at that, the others faltered. Knowing that the skirmish was almost won, Saint-Germain singled out the man with the club and rode at him. This time he did not use his sword, but in a feat of amazing strength carried the man from the ground as he passed and flung him bodily into the berry vines.
Chih-Yü had just worked her way free of her fallen horse when Saint-Germain reached her side and came out of the saddle. She gave him a long, appraising look. “Who cut you?”
Until she spoke, Saint-Germain was unaware that there was a wound on his forehead that was oozing blood. “I don’t know,” he said honestly as he blotted the wound with his sleeve. “It isn’t serious.”
“Apparently,” she said, then looked down at her horse. “It’s a pity,” she said, before she brought her blade down to end the animal’s suffering. She stood staring down at the bay as she wiped her weapon and fitted it into the scabbard.
“And you?” Saint-Germain asked when the distant look was gone from her eyes.
She shrugged. “It’s senseless. There are Mongols
coming to destroy us, and we must lose a good war horse to highwaymen.” She glanced toward the man in the thicket, who was moaning low in his throat. “Impressive.”
Saint-Germain said nothing. Her suspicion now could be fatal to him. Instead he wiped his sword on the lining of his dalmatica, then slid it into the scabbard before bending to turn the oldest highwayman over and pull the dagger from his back.
“You’ve fought before,” Chih-Yü said when she realized he would not speak to her.
“I have.” Unbidden, the memories came. He felt the futility of it, as he so often did now.
“In the West.”
“Yes.” He had put the dagger back in its boot sheath. “Will you ride behind me?” he asked.
“I haven’t much choice,” she said wearily; then her expression changed. “I did not expect something like this to happen. I would have brought armed militiamen with me if I thought we were likely to be attacked.”
“Perhaps it was not quite as simple as it seems,” Saint-Germain suggested gently as he brought the gray up to her.
Her eyes held his, each with their dark brightness. “You mean No-ei may have sent them word?…”
“It is one possibility. There are apt to be Mongol scouts in the area as well.” He offered her his joined hands, and tossed her up onto the gray’s back behind the saddle.
Once again she studied him. “You are stronger than I thought,” she said to him as he mounted.
He nodded, replying carefully, “Those of my blood are noted for strength.”
After a moment of hesitation, she put her arms around his waist as the gray set out through the whispering forest. She was silent until the track to the Mao-T’ou stronghold was reached, and then she spoke softly to him. “When I hired you in Lo-Yang, I thought you were a very poor bargain, but I knew I had to return with someone, or everyone here would lose heart. I was, I think, more fortunate than I knew when you agreed to come here.”
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